


let others lead small lives

by leias_left_hair_bun



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Republic Commando Series - Karen Traviss
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Baby Clones, F/M, Family Dinners, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I'll Explain Later, i guess?, kaminoans being nasty, mostly just kal being obnoxious but we love him anyways, so many baby clones, this is 10 years before the start of geonosis instead of 8 bc I Say So XD, top of head kisses (':
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26640739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leias_left_hair_bun/pseuds/leias_left_hair_bun
Summary: in an attempt to find a new purpose in your life after a relationship gone badly, you accept fett’s invitation to help oversee the development of his clones. unfortunately, you find yourself falling for one of the trainers.EDIT: i'm afraid i owe y'all an explanation/apology /: but i'm going to be deleting the smut scenes themselves from this fic and deciding if i want to rewrite or what. i'm so sorry about this!! hope y'all can forgive me and pls know i'm not going to be offended if you don't read future chapters
Relationships: Kal Skirata/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

When you first lay eyes on Kal, he takes your breath away.

You’re out on one of the landing platforms of Tipoca City, soaked through from the icy rain currently beating against your body. There’s no overhang above the door - of course there isn’t, the Kaminoans are as inhospitable as their world - and the door itself is, much to your chagrin, locked.

“No, no, no,” you mutter to yourself. You can’t even hear your own words above the pounding rain. “This _can’t_ be happening.”

You’d only arrived this morning and you’ve _already_ managed to get yourself into trouble. This was just typical.

According to Fett, the sequence you’re entering should unlock any outside door of the city, but as you try it again in one last desperate attempt, the light flashes red and the doors stay firmly shut. You slap the keypad in frustration and slump down to huddle against the doors, resigning yourself to your fate. Someone will be along to check the perimeter in the morning, and until then, you’ll just have to try not to freeze to death.

You shiver and try to wrap your arms around yourself more tightly. You’re so caught up in your misery that you don’t notice him until he’s standing directly in front of you.

You look up, blinking futilely against the rain. He towers above you, his cloak whipping out behind him the only indication that the elements are affecting him at all. You can barely stand straight against the buffeting wind, but he’s a unmoving mass of golden armor, the pelting rain merely bouncing off of him in glittering bursts.

You’re so caught up in gaping at the picture he paints that you almost forget there’s a person under that expressionless helmet. A person who is probably rolling their eyes at how you’re staring like an infatuated teenager.

“Sorry, but do you know how to unlock the door?” you shout.

He leans over you - oh right, you’re probably blocking his way - and punches in what appears to be the exact same sequence you’ve already tried. Except that this time, the light blinks green and the door spirals open. You scramble to your feet, irritation washing over you all over again. You already _hate_ this cold, inorganic planet. Why couldn’t there just be nice, normal doors with nice, normal locks that you could pick if need be?

You step to the side, expecting the Mandalorian to enter, but instead he stays where he is, visor tipped towards you expectantly. Belatedly, you realize that he means for you to enter first.

“Thanks,” you shout, ducking through the door hastily.

The Mandalorian follows you and the door hisses shut behind him, cutting off the noise outside abruptly. Only now do you realize what a soggy mess you must look.

_Not that it matters_ , you remind yourself firmly. You’re here to do a job and nothing more. That’s what you want. Purpose, meaning, and absolutely no chance of a relationship that will end with your heart broken and self esteem shattered yet again.

It’s hard to remember that, though, when you turn to face the Mandalorian and slip on the impractically polished floor, falling directly into him. He catches you easily, reaching out lightning-quick with strong arms and grasping yours with his large hands - no, this is _bad_ , what is _wrong_ with you -

“Don’t tell me you’re that caretaker Jango hired.”

His tone, even filtered through the modulator, is unmistakably one of utter annoyance. Whatever spark you were feeling is doused immediately and you pull yourself away roughly.

“I am, actually,” you say coldly. “I take it you’re his friend?”

But he doesn’t answer, his visor drifting downwards as he seems to appraise you before shaking his head and sweeping past you in a blaze of gold. You glare at his back. Great, you’ve already managed to alienate the first person you’ve met since you got here. It’s unsurprising, really; between locking yourself out and falling into his arms, he must think you’re all of the idiot farm hand you look.

Speaking of which, you were given to believe that there would be a uniform waiting for you in your new room. The thought of warm, _dry_ clothing makes you uncomfortably aware of how violently you’re shivering right now, and you hurry down one starkly white hallway after another in search of the living quarters set aside for Fett’s employees. It’s only when you reach your room that you look down at yourself and realize that your thin, light tunic - practical enough for the sunny climate you’re used to - is clinging to you in a way that leaves absolutely _nothing_ to the imagination. Your brain unhelpfully reminds you exactly where the Mandalorian’s gaze had been earlier and you writhe internally.

As first days went, this had to be one of the worst.

After that, there are no sparks when you see Kal. Just a sense of smallness and a need to get away. Especially after you learn more about him - his name, his job, his prestige. His marital status. He’s _married_. Not that it really counts, one of the friendlier trainers says, though they refuse to explain further when you ask and tell you sternly to mind your own business. You’re quickly learning that the trainers - or the Cuy’val Dar, as they call themselves - regard you as much an outsider as the Kaminoans do. They’re just as patronizing, too.

“It’s not _fair_ ,” you grouse to yourself as you open the message on your datapad and see that it’s yet another request for more diapers. The Kaminoans, for all their professed expertise, do not seem to understand how human babies work or how to manage such vast numbers of them, and you are starting to understand why Fett had been in such a rush to find an authority on child development.

And you are that. If you hadn’t thrown away your career for that stupid farmer, you would no doubt have a position in the research labs at the University of Alderaan by now. But no, instead you’re here, still young by most standards and already stuck with no chance of a future outside of endless piles of diapers and hours of trying to comfort one screaming baby after another as the Kaminoans hooked them up to machines and ran tests with chilling indifference.

_You wanted this_ , you remind yourself. And you did. It’s just that you didn’t realize how lonely it was going to be, or how depressing. When Fett had explained that there were millions of human clones (human children, you had corrected him) who needed a human to monitor them alongside the Kaminoan scientists, you hadn’t understood the implications. These weren’t normal children, and they weren’t meant to have a normal life. You know from years of study that babies need touch and play to develop properly, but that isn’t something you’re expected to give these ones. Not only that - it simply isn’t possible. You’re already beginning to hate yourself for participating in such an inhumane project. It’s not like you can do any real good, either; the trainers might care for their charges more than the Kaminoans, but they still seem to regard them as short, chubby-cheeked warriors, and any input you’ve tried to offer has been thrown back in your face. It’s enough to make you cry with frustration, and you’ve been here less than a month.

You sigh and throw the datapad down. It slides off your desk and hits the floor with a _thud_ that makes you wince just as someone knocks on your door. Cursing under your breath, you bend over to pick it up, ignoring the knock in favor of retrieving the piece of equipment you’re hoping you didn’t just break. You’re picking it up when you hear your door open. Apparently, your visitor doesn’t think he needs an invitation.

“ _What_ ,” you bite out, straightening up and turning around only to see a familiar set of gold armor. Great. The second time you’ve interacted with him, and you’ve managed to embarrass yourself both times.

You watch him grit his teeth and realize you’ve annoyed him again, too.

“Here,” he hands out a thin stack of flimsi stiffly and waits for you to take it. “I could use some advice with my nulls. They’re…not normal kids.”

That’s definitely not what you expected. Softening your expression, you take the flimsi and glance at it. It looks like a handwritten log of some sort.

“Do you mind if I take a moment to read this?” you ask.

The expression on Kal’s face looks an awful lot like disdain to you, and you have to remind yourself that he came to you and asked for advice. For that, you can be patient.

“That would be why I wrote it,” he says and moves towards your chair before stopping and looking around the room.

“Oh - sorry, there’s only one chair,” you say, realizing that he probably expected you to have an actual office. “I don’t think the Kaminoans expected that any of you would want to meet with me.“

“It’s fine.” Kal pulls out your chair and motions you into it before sitting on your desk instead, wincing almost imperceptibly as his ankle knocks against the corner of it.

You bite your tongue to keep from saying something sympathetic and no doubt unwanted and instead turn to the flimsi. A few minutes pass in silence as you read, your chest filling with more warmth at every line. Kal has given you a painstakingly detailed account of every word and action of the little nulls’ that apparently strikes him as concerning, along with his own thoughts about their behavior.

_“Mereel laughed out loud for the first time today, but none of the others have yet to do so.”_

_“I made uj for them again. They seemed to enjoy it last time from the way they practically licked their plates clean. They don’t get the right kind of food for growing lads and it’s clear they’re hungry for it, but they don’t seem to understand that it’s okay to ask for more. It doesn’t even cross their minds.”_

_“This afternoon, I told the kids they could play for a minute while I did some writing. They just stared at me. Ordo asked me what I was ordering them to do, specifically. He’s_ four _.”_

As you read, your heart goes out to these poor children, but as much as you know you’ll worry over the nulls later, right now you’re more focused on what you are learning about the man in front of you. You had no idea how much he cared for his charges - did he really make some kind of food for them? You find yourself thinking that that might just be the sweetest thing you’ve heard of in a very long time. Chancing a glance at Kal, you accidentally make eye contact as you realize that he’s been watching you closely this entire time. Embarrassed again, you clear your throat.

“I’ll need to go over this more throughly before I can give you my opinion,” you say. “Are there any specific issues that you’re concerned about?”

Kal exhales in a way that’s not quite a sigh and looks away from your face.

“I just don’t want them to grow into psychopaths,” he says. “They’re bred for the front lines and they’ve gotta be the best of the best, but they don’t need to be - “ He hesitates and you jump in.

“Psychotic. Right.” You glance at the filmsi again. “Trust me, I can see why you’re concerned.”

Kal looks at you sharply. “They’re not bad kids.”

Your heart jumps a little at that. Uh-uh. _Not getting involved. He’s_ married. _Stop falling for every guy who’s nice to kids._ “No, they’ve just been dealt a bad hand.” You meet Kal’s gaze and something in you prompts you to continue. “A really, _really_ bad hand. Actually, I don’t know how many kids would be able to go through what they have and come out half as strong. They seem to care for each other to an extent that’s beyond most children of their age, and that alone is impressive.”

Kal smiles. Actually smiles, looking ten years younger as his face softens and the corners of his eyes crinkle up. “Glad someone around here thinks that way.”

Your heart jumps again and you give up trying to fight it for the moment, tilting your head up to smile back. “I thought I was the only one who cared about them, actually.”

He scoffs at that. “You don’t give us enough credit.”

Pushing himself off of the desk and wincing again as his weight lands on his ankle - you can’t help but think he really needs to get that taken care of - he offers you a mock salute. You almost giggle at the boyish action. “I’ll be back later. And I’ll be expecting some good advice from you, doc.”

“I’ll try not to disappoint you.“


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which you find out some terrible truths about the cloning facility, hug several clone babies, and work out your feelings for kal in a ~healthy~ manner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeahhh i'm giving up on trying to think of chapter titles XD
> 
> Edit: smut scene is gone /: and in the meantime there is only a placeholder while i try to figure out what i want to do. again i am very sorry about this!! .....also i REALLY hope it doesn't mess up my formatting XD

The morning after Kal’s visit, you wake up feeling more energized than you have since you arrived at the facility. The first thing you see is the flimsi you’d read yourself to sleep with, and it reminds you of a truth you’ve been reluctant to confront.

“Almost a whole month and I haven’t done anything,” you say out loud to the empty room.

It’s probably a bad sign that you’ve started holding conversations with yourself; you can practically hear your instructors’ lecture on the effects of isolation. You have more important things to worry about than your own sanity, though.

“And what’s more, I don’t _know_ anything,” you continue scoldingly. “I mean, have you even stepped outside of the nursery complex? No?” You reach for your uniform, neatly laid over the chair next to your bed, and shake it out briskly. “Oh that’s right, you haven’t even tried to see what’s outside of it ‘cause you’ve been holed up in your ‘office’ hiding from the creepy Kaminoans. And the Mandalorians.” Particularly _that_ Mandalorian. Not that you’re going to dwell on him - again, you remind yourself that there are more important things.

Reading through Kal’s log last night, you’d been reminded with a pronounced twinge of guilt that you don’t even know what happens to the kids you are monitoring, not once they reach the toddler stage. So far, you’ve only spent time around the infant clones, whether it be those still in their gestation tubes or those freshly decanted and not yet old enough to begin their training. Before you’d set eyes on the nursery complex, you’d imagined long lines of cribs with the usual baby paraphernalia - textured mobiles, soft toys, and colorful pacifiers. The idea of massive playpens had crossed your mind, as well, and rooms filled with baby swings.

The reality, however, had turned out to be drastically different. The swings are there, and so are the cribs, but they’re sterile and devoid of anything colorful or soft, instead fitted with small monitors and connected to baby-sized headsets. And the Kaminoans don’t let any of their product lie around uselessly. Instructional data tapes are constantly played on the monitors, and so far every time you’ve tried to pick up an upset child and rock them, the roaming Kaminoans give you at most a couple of minutes before they swoop down on you and pluck the child out of your hands so he can “resume his instruction.”

Your classes only mentioned cloning briefly, calling it a relatively unknown process with few true successes. If this is the way clone children have always been raised, you’re not surprised by the success rate. But perhaps the flash-learning and physical training is more…normal?

“Probably not,” you say, glancing at the flimsi again. “Hard to tell from _that_ , though.”

A second reading of Kal’s log has convinced you that the only way to understand the little nulls’ situation is to observe them in person. Somewhat infuriatingly, Kal has written nothing about his interactions with his cadets during their training sessions. You have only a vague idea of what the mysterious training is - mainly physical exercises and age-appropriate battlefield simulations - but the noticeable absence of any mention of it means that either Kal doesn’t believe you’re capable of understanding it or that he thinks it should be kept a secret from you. And that simply won’t do, not if you’re going to do any real work.

Grabbing your data pad and taking one last quick look in your mirror, you open your door and start for the nursery complex. You might not be able to observe any of the training exercises today - you know that’s something you’ll first have to discuss with Kal tonight - but there’s plenty of work you can do meanwhile. It’s time to get some answers.

______________________________

Or not. It’s been nearly an hour now that you’ve been trying to talk to one of the Kaminoans, and he’s not proving to be helpful. As happens every time you bring up your observations or suggestions for improvement, your comments are being gently, firmly dismissed in a way that leaves no room for further discussion, and you’re getting desperate.

“I’ve asked this before, but I’ve never gotten a clear answer,” you say, tipping your head back to try and catch the scientist’s eye. “Why do you need me here if you’ve been creating clones for two years already?”

The scientist blinks at you. “Not all of the test batches were…successful.”

Oh? _Why haven’t I heard about this before?_ You’d been given the impression that the Kaminoans had perfected cloning, and this admission that they’ve made something like a mistake is encouraging.

“Not successful? What do you mean, exactly?” you ask, trying not to sound eager.

“It varied from pod to pod, and even within the pods. Some were simply physically imperfect, and some did not meet cognitive or behavioral standards. We learned from our mistakes with the first batches, of course, and the truly disastrous ones were swiftly culled. But we would like to avoid reconditioning as many of our units as possible in future, and the donor insisted that a human consultant may benefit us in this way.”

 _Culled?_ Your stomach drops as you glance swiftly at the shining columns of gestation tubes towering above you. Before the room had seemed almost peaceful, even with the disconcerting sight of millions of human babies floating in transparent vats. Now, you feel a distinct sense of entrapment.

“What does - “ you can’t bring yourself to ask that question. Swallowing down your nausea, you try for something different. “What happens to the clones who are reconditioned?”

The Kaminoan tilts his head in your direction. The weaving movement is reminiscent of that of a snake, and although the rational part of your brain assures you that the resemblance is merely due to his long neck, your instincts scream at you to run.

“That depends on the unit.” He blinks again, expressionless. “Though if one has to be reconditioned at this early stage, it typically means termination.” He must catch your look of poorly disguised horror because he continues. “You must understand that the clones are our product. Surely you wouldn’t expect any other plant to sell defective goods to its customers?”

You know you shouldn’t argue. There’s no point. You’re all too aware that you’re one tiny, unessential cog in an enormous machine, the extent of which you’re only just beginning to realize. Exactly one person in this city cares about your opinion and he’s not the one in charge. But everything about this is just so wrong. Your chest feels tight and your blood is starting to pound in your ears and you don’t know how long you can keep your words to yourself, not when they’re building up pressure in your throat and threatening to burst out of your mouth. And the scientist just keeps going.

“There’s a difference between the children you observed during your…studies,” he says, his tone more patronizing than usual, if that’s even possible, "and these units. Those were humans, these are a result of engineering. We know that humans are emotional creatures and easily attached, and I understand that your natural inclination is to attempt to nurture the units, but that is not what they are designed for.” He gestures with one long, pale hand at the tubes. “You would find the experience disappointing if you tried. Not only is each of our clones exactly like the other in personality, but they have very little personality at all. They don’t feel any more attachment than needed to work effectively in their squads, and we have designed their flash-training to eliminate the possibility of them learning to understand any sort of emotional discomfort.”

You’re clenching your fists now, righteous fury fighting for dominance with your common sense.

“Nothing I’ve read suggests that you can just remove a person’s emotions,” you say, forcing your voice to stay level.

The scientist’s cheeks pulled up into what you suppose must pass for a smile among his species. “We consider that to be one of our greatest achievements.”

Oh, _no_. That does it. Every curse word you know is knocking against your teeth now and you know you can’t bite them down much longer. You turn to the scientist with a forced smile and hold out your hand.

“It’s been a pleasure talking to you, and I appreciate your time,” you lie. “I have some research to do, but I hope we can continue this conversation later.”

“Of course,” the scientist says and glides away, probably to wire up one of the unfortunate infants to a machine again. You grit your teeth.

“Wish I’d never left Arreyel,” you mutter.

______________________________

Okay, so maybe cuddling clone babies isn’t exactly _research_ , but it is helping you feel better. You pick up another whimpering kid from his pod’s crib and push his curls off of his forehead, rocking him a little as you smile into his chubby face and stroke his scrunched-up nose.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” you croon. “I’ve got you now, okay?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see a tall, pale shape moving towards you. _Great. Here comes the baby police._ You reluctantly lay the child next to his brothers and reaffix his headset before the Kaminoan gets too close. _Moving on, then._ You walk casually along the row, waiting until the Kaminoan gives up and glides away again. You wait a few more moments. _One, two, three - can’t they see something’s wrong if half these kids are always crying? - four, five - okay, it’s safe now._ You slide your arms under two babies this time, pulling them to your chest and holding them there until they quiet.

“It’s okay, darlings. You’re safe now.” You don’t know what else to tell them; it’s not like they can understand you, anyway.

Setting them back down, you move onto yet another crib. There’s so _many_ of them. You could spend your entire day just soothing children and you still wouldn’t make more than a tiny dent in the sea of distraught babies. You’ve already put in several requests for an actual staff of cuddlers, but the Kaminoans don’t seem to believe your claims that human touch is both therapeutic and essential to healthy infant development. Which is utterly ridiculous - how many times do you have to remind them that you’ve been hired as a childhood development specialist?

“There’s gotta be someone else they’ll listen to,” you tell the baby you’re currently holding. He stares up at you seriously, his dark eyes wide. “What do you think? Should I try to go through Fett? Trouble is, I haven’t seen him since I got here.”

The baby puckers his mouth and utters the tiniest of coos. Your heart swells at the soft sound and you hug the little boy a little tighter, bending down to press your lips against his forehead and breathing in his sweet baby scent, absently thinking how out of place it seemed in this sterile environment.

“I’ll get you a cuddler, I promise,” you whisper. “I’ll get a whole army of them, even if I have to go down on my knees and beg Fett for them.”

“He’d hate that,” says a voice behind you and you jump and whirl around, clutching the baby in your arms close on instinct.

It’s Kal. Of course it is.

“Jango doesn’t like it when people crawl. He’d be more likely to listen if you shoved a blaster in his face.” Kal looks pointedly at the kid. “Something wrong with that one?”

You take deep breaths and will your heart rate to slow down again. Shaking your head, you turn to set the baby back in his crib. “Just trying to soothe them a little. They aren’t getting any touch other than from their brothers, and that really isn’t enough, or the right kind.” You face Kal again with a wry smile. “That’s almost certainly where a good deal of the odd behavior your cadets display comes from; they weren’t given proper stimulus as infants. I’m surprised they’re not displaying any kind of delay in their cognitive development.”

“None of that, no. They’ve got perfect recall.”

“Well. That’s not all there is to it,” you start to say, but stop yourself before you can launch into a mini lecture. There’s no reason to give the obviously exhausted sergeant any more reason to worry than he already has. It’s too late, though.

“What else is there?” Kal asks quickly.

“Um.” You try to remember what was in the log. “Poor motor skills - doesn’t sound like they struggle with that - shyness? Anxiety. Aggression, certainly.”

“Motor skills?” Kal huffs a little in a way that might be a laugh. “They’re deadly accurate little marksmen, but I’ve caught them bashing their limbs against the furniture more than once.”

“Alright, so that’s a potential issue, at least to some degree.” You look around hopelessly at the countless cribs. “I’m getting that staff even if it does take pointing a blaster at someone. These babies are young enough I think we can rescue some of the deficits.”

Following your gaze, Kal groans and runs a hand over his face. “Great. But it’s not as if you and I can go back in time and sing my lads to sleep, so what about them?”

Your overactive imagination immediately conjures up an image of Kal, armor and all, gently cradling one of the dark-haired infants with his rough hands. You can’t help the warmth that fills your chest, nor the girlish little smile that creeps onto your face. _Ugh. You’re spiraling again. Get it together before he catches you._

“It wouldn’t do any harm to shower them in affection now!” you say brightly, beaming at Kal.

Except he doesn’t seem to share your enthusiasm. He fixes you with a look that could either be pity or disdain, and you don’t like either possibility. “Can’t do that. They’re too old now.“

You frown in confusion. “I thought you said they were four?”

Kal won’t meet your eyes now. He glares at a Kaminoan in the distance instead and works his jaw a bit as if he’s trying to get rid of a bad taste. “Yeah, kinda. It’s not that simple. And you’re forgetting that in eight years, give or take, they’ve got to be ready for deployment; they’ve got to be perfect soldiers by then. They’ve got to grow up twice as fast and turn out twice as tough and the only way they’re gonna do that is if they go through the hardest training we can give them.”

The warmth is gone now. “I’m sorry, you don’t think the children under your care should be shown kindness? I thought you were making food for them.”

Kal works his jaw harder. “What do you think? You think I should coddle them and kiss their hurts and then send them into battle to die? They don’t have time to be kids and I don’t have time to treat them like it, not when I’ve got the aiwha-bait breathing down my neck and looking for an excuse to slit their throats.”

You glare at him, willing him to look at you, but of course he doesn’t. “What was all that last night about caring, then, and the log? I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I do care, or I wouldn’t be wasting my time with you. I just don’t have a lot of decent options.” He turns and moves towards the exit, apparently done with this conversation.

Well, that’s just too bad, because you’re certainly not finished. You hurry after him, irritated both by his stubbornness and by the fact that the happiness you’d gleaned from holding the babies is completely gone. With the morning you’ve had, you’d really needed that peaceful moment. Now you’re back to wanting to fight someone, and since the Kaminoan scientist who put you in such a foul mood in the first place is no longer available, Kal will have to do.

“I’m sorry for _wasting your time_ , Kal,” you spit at his shiny gold back, but he doesn’t so much as turn his head, just pushes on towards the living quarters.

You try again. “I didn’t ask you to write that log!”

He doesn’t say a word and something in you is unreasonably angry at the way he seems to think he can acknowledge your existence only when it’s convenient to him. He turns a corner sharply and you very nearly run into him. Another trainer, taller than Kal and clad in black armor, walks by at that moment and the coldly disapproving look he gives you doesn’t help your blood pressure.

“Kal!”

He stops short and for a brief moment you think he’s going to respond, but then you blink and in that fraction of a second he somehow manages to whirl around and grip your shoulders so tightly that you don’t dare try to move.

“What’re you trying to do?”

“I’m _trying_ to get you to talk to me.” The thought crosses your mind that he’s close enough that if he were taller, you’d have to crane your neck to talk to him. “Which, as it happens, you were perfectly willing to do when it was on your grounds.”

Kal narrows his eyes at you. “Nope. You’re not trying to talk, you’re trying to pick a fight.” You open your mouth to protest but his grip tightens and you end up hissing in pain instead. “I know too much about women not to figure that one out.”

It’s with immense difficulty that you restrain yourself from telling Kal that you can see why his wife apparently chose not to come to Kamino with him. “Oh, please. I can’t fight you, not with all that gaudy armor.” He doesn’t need to know that the said armor has been the subject of a good many fantasies since that first night.

Kal stares at you like you’ve suddenly sprouted montrals. “I didn’t mean physically.“

“Well.” You shift experimentally under his loosening grasp and try to decide whether not your next words could get you into trouble. And whether or not you want them to. “I did.”

Kal lets go of you and steps back, his gaze turned uncomfortably scrutinizing. You lift your chin and meet his eyes defiantly. You know you’re being childish but in your defense, it’s been a long day and a _really_ long month and at the moment, punching the frustratingly attractive sergeant in the face sounds awfully appealing.

“Okay,” Kal finally says. “Fine. I’ll take my armor off and you can get whatever this out of your system.“

 _Does he realize how patronizing he sounds?_ “Fine.”

He turns and walks down a corridor and you follow, not really sure where he’s leading you until he stops in front of one of the bigger doors. He presses the control pad and you follow him into what’s obviously a gym of some sort. The floor is lined with mats and the walls with punching bags, and there’s a huge rack of weights in one corner. You catch a glimpse of yourself, almost fragile-looking compared to Kal’s armored bulk, in one of the huge mirrors and try not to feel like you’ve made a mistake. Whether or not you have, it’s too late now; Kal’s already removing his armor. Intrigued by the process, you watch for a moment as he carefully sets aside piece after piece before you shake yourself out of your trance and set about removing your coat and shoes. You’re just finishing fixing your hair by the time Kal comes over to you clad only in his flight suit.

“Ready?”

You hope your voice still sounds as confident as it did in the corridor. “I am. How do you want to do this?”

“Uh-uh. _You’re_ the one who wants this.” Kal shakes his head and beckons you over to one of the mats. “I take it you don’t have much experience with sparring, so I’ll go over the rules first.”

Kal quickly outlines the legal target areas and gives you wrappings for your hands. “I’d say not to go full-strength, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary in your case,” he adds and you shoot him the dirtiest look you can manage.

Unfortunately, within about fifteen seconds it turns out he’s right. You don’t know exactly how old the sergeant is, but you’re positive his muscle tone isn’t normal for someone his age. Nor his flexibility. You manage to land exactly one good hit (and you have a nasty suspicion it’s only because he lets you) before he gets your arms behind your back and twists you around to push you into the mat. He’s got you so tightly that you can’t so much as wriggle under him and you’re forced to admit defeat.

“Go again?” you gasp and he lets you go, standing and watching calmly as you sit up and rub your arms.

“When you’re ready.”

You grit your teeth and get to your feet. “I’m ready.”

Except you aren’t. This time he just steps aside when you try to throw a punch and you suddenly find yourself on your back with the wind knocked out of you. The bastard swept you off your feet without hardly moving a muscle. All you can do is lie still and wait for your breath to come back while you close your eyes and try to process what just happened.

“When you’re ready,” Kal says nonchalantly.

You stand, more slowly this time. “I’m ready.”

You’re not. Nor are you the third time, nor the fourth. The fifth has you staggering to your feet with significantly less enthusiasm than you had felt earlier. _Why did I think it would be a good idea to pick a fight with a Mandalorian? All that education and not an iota of common sense to go with it._

Kal rolls his shoulders and glances over at his armor. “Done?”

“No,” you pant.

Kal raises an eyebrow at you. You tilt your head. “Are _you_ done?”

“I can’t tell if you’re actually _di'kutla_ or just really pissed off,” Kal remarks thoughtfully and this time, he strikes first.

You know he’s not putting his full weight behind it, not even close, but it still sends you reeling backwards with no hope of regaining your balance in time. He lunges towards you and grabs your arms, and then you’re on your stomach on the mat again with his knee pressing into your back. You growl in frustration and try to squirm out of his grasp, but once again, it’s painfully obvious that you’re not going anywhere.

“Go - go again?” you rasp out. It’s foolish; you can already feel bruises forming and you hope he’ll take pity on you this time. You can’t give in, though, not after you asked for this.

Kal doesn’t respond immediately and he doesn’t let go of you. He pulls you with him as he sits up and holds you like that, on your knees with your arms behind your back, and when you look up you realize he’s got you facing one of the mirrors. You glance hastily away from your bedraggled reflection only to accidentally make eye contact with his - he’s actually trying not to laugh. If your pride hadn’t gotten lost somewhere between the fifth and sixth times you’ve been thrown onto the mat, you’d be tempted to try head butting him. Not that it would do any good, you reflect miserably; between his reflexes and the thick layer of muscle across his chest you’d probably hurt yourself worse than you would him.

“I think you’re done,” Kal says, and there’s a hint of something like approval in his tone.

You _really_ don’t want to think too hard about the effect that has on you.

“I’m not - not yet,” you try to insist, but it comes out more like a question.

Kal huffs and pulls on your arms so your back arches. It’s nearly impossible not to look at him in the mirror at this angle, which is undoubtedly his intention.

“Yeah, you are. And so am I.” He releases your arms only to trap your wrists in one of his hands before you can pull away. “I’m not going to give you any more bruises.”

“What if I want you to?” you say thoughtlessly and immediately wince as your brain catches up with your mouth. “I mean - “ Kal’s definitely laughing at you now, his eyes crinkled up and his shoulders shaking slightly. “Okay, obviously I don’t want that, but - ” You hesitate, unsure of what you’re trying to ask for.

The air in the room seems to thicken as you watch Kal bring his free hand up to your shoulder. He presses his fingers into the muscle there and you very nearly whimper. Of _course_ he’d know the exact spot where you’re holding all your tension.

“You’re still on edge,” he says.

He circles his thumb over a knot and this time you can’t hold your sigh of relief back. In the mirror, you can see Kal’s adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly.

“Sparring isn’t the only way to relieve tension,” he says quietly.

You don’t dare respond to that. You don’t dare _breathe_. You cautiously lean into his touch and let your eyes close as you try to collect your thoughts. _Is he implying what I think he is?_ Taking a deep breath, you try to relax your shoulders and realize that Kal has taken his hand away from your wrists. _He’s giving me a choice._

“Okay,” you say hoarsely and you swallow hastily before trying again. “Okay. I’m willing to try anything at this point.”

“Not good enough,” Kal says firmly and your eyes fly open in disbelief.

“You _bastard_ \- “

“Nope. Listen to me.” He turns you around and grasps you by both shoulders, looking at you with deadly seriousness. “We’re both stuck on this planet for I don’t know how many years and we need to be able to work together. The only way that’s gonna happen is with clear communication, okay?”

The rational part of your brain reminds you that he’s right. And of one other thing.

“If we’re going to have clear communication, let’s start with your marriage.”

Kal’s eyes narrow dangerously. “I don’t have one. Divorced. Satisfied?”

 _Oh_. Great, now you can add guilt to the complicated mess of emotions currently churning in your stomach.

“I’m so sorry, Kal. I was under the impression - “ you stop, feeling your face heat with embarrassment as Kal’s eyebrows shoot up. “ _Fierfek_ , I can’t imagine what you’re thinking of me right now. I just thought since you were here alone…"

Kal sighs and drops his hands. “It’s fine. I’m not thinking anything of you, I promise.” His face flushes slightly. “Could have put that better.”

“No, I’m glad,” you say distractedly, desperately trying to think of how to get away from the subject now you’ve brought it up. “Um - what would you like to be clear on about me?”

##  **[RIP smut scene]**

He glances at the chrono. “Besides, my lads will be about done with their lessons by now.”

“Oh, right.” You think of the stack of work on your own desk and grimace. “I suppose I’d better get back to my work, too.“

You watch silently as Kal reaffixes each piece of his golden armor until he’s the picture of an intimidating Mandalorian warrior once again. Reluctantly, you pull your clothes to you and start dressing.

“I do make _uj’alayi_ for them.”

Huh? You pause and look at Kal questioningly.

“Sorry?”

“My nulls. I make _uj’alayi_ for them. It’s a kind of cake.”

“Oh! I’m glad.”

You’re not really sure what to say, but your smile must be enough for Kal. He nods at you and slips out the door, glancing again at the chrono on his way out. You must have made him late.

You hope you’ll have more time tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which you threaten a kaminoan, meet a very cross mandalorian and his very weird dog, get some ✨quality time✨ with kal, and have dinner with six small two-year-olds who are really four-year-olds (it’s the nulls. i think we all know i mean the nulls)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you notice a discrepancy between this and the first chapter, no you didn’t (: i went back and edited the first chapter but i’m mostly hoping no one notices XD
> 
> Edit: again, smut scene has been replaced with a placeholder for now ):

Apparently you really are fated to run into Kal at the worst possible moments.

You’ve spent the entire morning carefully putting the finishing touches on a collection of evidence to add to your arguments for the cuddlers - you really shouldn’t have to, but you think that perhaps the Kaminoans will listen to you if you can show them proof from a source they believe is credible. You just don’t know what source that would be. So, you’ve done your best to include a little bit of everything.

And the rotten Kaminoans - aiwha-bait, you’ve heard Kal them, or worse, and you’re tempted to do the same - don’t seem to care. You’d waited over an hour to hand the data off to Ko Sai and she’d barely glanced at it before telling you she’d “received the previous requests and didn’t have time to look at more pseudo-science.”

Which is why you currently have her backed up against a wall with a stylus pointing at her face, or, rather, as close to it as you can reach. Admittedly it’s closer to her shoulder than anything, and it’s not like you could actually hurt her with it, but your posture must be unnerving her anyways.

“You slimy, cold-hearted - _fish_ ,” you splutter. “I’ve spent a _month_ collecting data and you can spare _ten minutes_ to read it. It’s not _pseudo-science_ , it’s real science, just as good as yours, and you can take your arrogance and - and your xenophobia, and your bitchiness, and you can shove it right - “

You see a flash of gold out of the corner of your eye and break off abruptly. _Why am I not surprised._ Of course. Of course he’d show up _now_.

“Oh hi, Kal,” you say, not moving a centimeter from your current position or breaking eye contact with the bug-eyed Kaminoan. “I’d love to chat, but I’m a little busy right now.”

“I noticed,” Kal says, stepping further into your line of vision and taking his helmet off to tuck it under his arm. “That’s not a stylus, it is?”

You grind your teeth and try not to yell at him. Again.

“I don’t _have_ a knife or trust me, I’d be using that,” you snap.

“It is unwise to threaten me,” Ko Sai says haughtily, but she flinches as you jab the stylus closer to her face.

“I’m not _threatening_ you, I’m just trying to get you to _listen_ ,” you say and you’re fully well aware that you sound like a petulant child _again_ , but you can’t find it in you to care.

“She’s not going anywhere,” Kal says to Ko Sai, jerking his head towards you. “So you might want to get used to working with her, _gihaal_.”

Ko Sai blinks several times and her mouth, if possible, purses even more than usual. You lower the stylus.

“I am beginning to believe it was a mistake to work with Mandalorians,” she says to Kal. “Your presumptuousness is astounding considering your flaws and I fear you and your associates will taint the merchandise.”

Kal laughs shortly and somewhat nastily. “Here’s hoping we do.”

“What about my request?” you break in. This conversation is getting off-topic and you need to press what little advantage you might have before it completely derails. “What about all my research? Are you going to read any of it, or am I going to be hounding you day and night for the rest of the blasted century?”

The look Ko Sai shoots down at you is nothing short of icy.

“Very well, I will concede that our scientists have some slight ignorance on the cruder needs of your mongrel species. If you can find a way to recruit a staff of - _cuddlers_ \- you can use them.”

 _Finally._ You resist the urge to cheer, or slap Ko Sai, or both, and instead step back, allowing her to pass.

“Thank you,” you say as she brushes past you.

She doesn’t respond.

“Seems like I showed up at the right time,” Kal says.

“Unbelievable.” You glare at him; he’s all cool, assured steel from his hard eyes to his gleaming armor, and you’d strike at him if you weren’t afraid you’d hurt yourself. “DIdn’t you hear the part about me spending all month compiling data? And I’ve sent a request every other day, practically; that wasn’t _you_ that made her give in.”

At least you hope it wasn’t. Kal exhales noisily and moves to lean against the wall.

“I was looking for you to invite you to supper, not fight you again. If you could call it that.”

Was that last part meant to be a jab about your last “fight” or is he just oblivious to how it sounded? _Better not to push it._

“Are you offering to cook for me?”

The corner of Kal’s mouth twitches. “Surprised I can?”

You shrugged lightly. “You only told me you know how to make cake. I was under the impression you couldn’t make anything else.”

Kal scoffs. “‘Course not. Every Mandalorian warrior worth their salt knows how to get a decent meal on the table.”

“That’s an admirable quality.”

“Not that I actually have a table,” Kal adds.

“I don’t mind.”

“Good.” Kal nods, satisfied, and pushes himself off the wall again. “By the way, how’re you planning on recruiting your staff?”

“Oh.” You follow him down the hall, chewing your lip thoughtfully. “I guess I’ll have to ask Fett. Is he back yet?”

“Nope.” Kal looks at you in that hard, scrutinizing way that makes your blood boil. “Doubt he’d listen to you even if he was.”

“I can be very persuasive. Did I not just hold a prominent Kaminoan at stylus-point?”

“You did.” Oddly, his expression softens for a moment. “But if you want to get to Fett, you’ll have better luck going through Vau.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “Who’s Vau?”

Kal makes a face like he’s smelt something rancid. “You saw him yesterday. Sour-faced man in black armor.”

“Oh, the tall one,” you say and grin when Kal glares at you.

“He’s chummy with Fett. And his strill. And no one else, so don’t try to be charming.”

You let your mouth fall open in mock indignation. “I don’t have to try.”

Kal huffs a laugh and takes your arm to guide you around a corner. If you took advantage of the situation to move closer to him, neither of you commented on it.

“What’s a strill, by the way?”

“Smelly, vicious animal. Compliment it if you think of something nice to say, but stay away from its jaws.”

You pull a face. “Sounds lovely. You know, so far, I’m not feeling overwhelmingly confident about this.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I know _I’ll_ be fine, Kal. It’s Vau I’m not sure about. He doesn’t sound pleasant, and if I can’t be charming, and I can’t ingratiate myself via his pet, and I can’t expect him to be friendly, what _can_ I do? You’re making him out to be utterly unreasonable.”

“Just don’t point your stylus at him, not if you don’t want to be laughed out of his quarters.”

You roll your eyes. “Not helpful.”

Kal stops suddenly and you bump into him, biting your lip in pain when your shoulder bangs against his pauldron.

“Sorry,” Kal says and, without any warning whatsoever, drops his helmet to grab your face with both hands and pull you into him for a kiss.

You give in and relax against him, drinking in the feeling of his mouth on yours. It’s nice enough to calm you down for a brief moment - or at least it would if your traitorous mind didn’t jolt you back to what had followed the kissing yesterday. _Maybe talking to Vau can wait._

Kal breaks away from you and nods towards one of the doors. “That’s his quarters.”

“What was that for?”

“Thought you could use the encouragement.” Kal’s gaze drifts downwards to where your skin is exposed above the v of your neckline. “Did it work?”

You roll your eyes as he moves his hands closer to where his eyes are focused. “Are you sure you didn’t just want to kiss me?”

“That, too.”

The fabric of your shirt catches on his fingertips as his hands drag over the sides of your breasts. Such a light touch shouldn’t get you this worked up, you think, but here you are.

“We’re in public.”  
  
“Yes.”

“I _knew_ you weren’t going to be satisfied.”

Kal glances at you. “I was.”

“Nonsense. Are you telling me you prefer your own hand? Or can you just not get it up anymore?”

You hope your voice sounds firmer to his ears than it does to yours; it’s hard not to be breathy with the way Kal’s now using his thumbs to trace patterns closer and closer to your nipples. It’s ridiculous how he seems to know exactly the right amount of pressure to apply to make you feel his caresses through your bra.

“You’re mouthy,” Kal remarks, seemingly unbothered by your taunts.

“You’re arrogant.”

Kal just grins sharply and pushes closer to you. Now you’ve got the plating on his thigh pressing against somewhere _very_ nice and if you weren’t so turned on already you’d be irritated that he’s doing this practically on someone’s doorstep.

“Kal!” you choke out. Your cheeks are on fire now and you’re desperately hoping there aren’t any security probes in the area. “I - we’re - “

“We’re what, _cyar’ika_?” he croons and the rational part of you wonders why you don’t smack him.

“We’re in _public_.”

Kal sighs and pulls his hands away, stepping back. “Go talk to Vau and then come find me. Same training room as yesterday.”

Narrowing your eyes, you try to glare at him. “What makes you think I’ll just follow when you snap your fingers? And what’s wrong with your own quarters?”

“I’ve got six little boys running around my quarters. And I’m cooking you supper tonight,” Kal says in a tone that would have been reproachful if the twinkle in his eyes hadn’t betrayed him.

Spluttering indignantly, you’re still trying to think of something clever to throw back at him when you hear a strange, muffled whining sound. You look over your shoulder nervously.

“What’s that?”

“ _That_ would be Vau’s horrible strill,” Kal says. He picks up his helmet and puts it on. “Good luck.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving you with an ache between your legs and the prospect of what you’ve no doubt will be an unpleasant conversation with the stranger on the other side of the door.

“Thanks for the support,” you say belatedly to the empty hallway.

You sigh and straighten your clothing before walking up to the door and rapping on it. Almost before your knuckles meet the gleaming surface, a scratching noise starts on the other side, and you hear someone call to the animal - the strill, you’re assuming - in the Mandalorian language. The scratching stops and the door opens, revealing the same man from yesterday, only without his armor. You try to not react to the pungent odor that hits your nose from somewhere below your line of sight and open your mouth to say something suitably polite, but the man beats you to it.

“Well?”

“Are you Vau?”

You try to ignore the way he’s looking down his long nose at you. You’d thought Kal’s eyes were hard, this man’s were nothing short of flinty.

“I’m Walon Vau, yes. I take it Skirata didn’t have the courtesy to tell you my full name.”

“Um.” Something gold and close to the floor catches your eye and you glance at it. It’s a furry, long, _ugly_ creature with folded skin - and it’s _drooling_. That must be where the smell is coming from. “He told me about your strill.”

“Did he? He wouldn’t have told you anything accurate,” Vau said. “That _chakaar_ never has anything complimentary to say about Lord Mirdalan.”

“Is that his - um, her? Name?” you ask, floundering for _something_ to use to get through the door.

“Lord Mirdalan is a hemaphrodite,” Vau says austerely. “All strills are.”

 _Well, how was I supposed to know that?_ You notice that Vau is still dressed head-to-toe in black and you can’t help but think snippily that it’s a terrible fashion choice for the owner of a massive, light-colored animal.

“That’s fascinating,” you say. “I’ve never heard of strills before. Are they rare?”

Vau sighs irritably and steps back from the door, ushering you in with a wave of his hand. “I don’t suppose you came here to discuss strills. What _do_ you want?”

“Not quite, no,” you say, trying to ignore the way Lord Mirdalan is nosing at your shoes. You _really_ hope it’s not drooling all over them. “I actually need to ask you a favor.”

Vau snorts. “That’s rich, considering you and Skirata were making out outside my door five minutes ago like a couple of teenagers.”

You _choked_. Vau, the insufferable bastard, smirks at you.

“I’m not deaf.”

“I’m sorry - I didn’t - I didn’t think anyone could hear,” you stammer.

“Let’s not discuss it further,” Vau says, as if _he_ hadn’t been the one to bring it up. “I’d rather not think about what Skirata does in his free time. Or whom.”

 _Nice guy_ , you think and try unsuccessfully not to feel offended. “Let me tell you what I need, then, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

Twenty minutes later, you’ve come to an agreement. You’ll supply Vau with a job description, list of requirements, and suggestions for where Fett might look for potential candidates. Vau will pass all of this information along to Fett along with a compelling argument to make sure Fett actually starts looking for said candidates. In return, you’ll _not_ bother Vau again. You’ll _not_ talk to him outside of the staffing subject. You’ll stay _far_ away from his quarters and do your utmost to keep Kal away from them, too.

“We’re not actually dating or anything like it,” you point out stiffly, wishing you could tell Vau what you actually think of him.

Vau rolls his eyes. “He’s being foolish, especially after he already burned himself with an outsider. But unfortunately, I know Skirata fairly well, and he doesn’t do anything by halves. If you think this is anything but serious to him, you’re sorely mistaken. And if it’s anything but serious to _you_ , you’d better get out of it.”

As annoyed as you are at the moment, Vau’s words stir something warm and bright inside of you. You _know_ you shouldn’t be this giddy over a man you barely know but you’re already in too deep.

After every relevant detail has been settled, Vau shoos you out the door with tell-tale relief. As you step back into the hallway, you turn to thank him again but he’s already reaching for the controls.

“Just _go_ ,” he says, and the strill whines as if in agreement.

So, once again, you find yourself marching towards the training room with a chip on you shoulder. You feel a distinct sense of déjà vu as you punch in the code - that is, until you walk in and see Kal, already sans armor, lying on the matted floor with his hands behind his head.

 _Is he asleep?_ You hesitate in the doorway.

“Did he agree?”

So he wasn’t napping. “Yes, he did, and _you_ didn’t bother to tell me his whole name.”

Kal sits up quickly. “ _You_ didn’t bother to ask. Are you looking to pick a fight _again_ , _tracyn’ika_?”

“Well. No.” You deflate a bit and plop onto the floor next to him. “But Kal, he heard us - in the hallway, I mean - and he was terribly rude about it.”

To his credit, Kal has the decency to look abashed. “ _Osiik_. Sorry.”

“You should be,” you say and immediately regret it as you watch his face fall. “No, wait, I shouldn’t have - you’ll remember I was a willing participant, Kal.” You reach for Kal’s hand and squeeze it gently. “ _Very_ willing. Vau can’t say anything nasty enough to make me regret it.”

“He’d better not, or I’ll gut him,” Kal mutters, but his face clears a little and he tugs on your hand until you fall forward against his shoulder. “I _am_ sorry.”

“I know.”

“I’ll keep my voice down next time.”

“ _Next time_?”

“What, you don’t want there to be a next time?”

You sigh exasperatedly. Kal doesn’t take the hint.

“Let me make you forget Vau.”

“Really, Kal?” You try fruitlessly to squirm out of his grasp and wonder once again how he still has so much hard muscle.

“By the way, what did he say, exactly?”

“Does it matter?” You peer up at his face and see that the steel is back in his eyes. Your heart rate picks up and the lizard part of your brain demands to know why it’s taking so _long_ for anything to happen. “Let’s go back to the part where you make me forget.”

Kal shakes his head and adjusts his grip on you. _Here we go again,_ you think and sure enough, he’s got you on the floor in one fluid motion. You’re on your back this time, though, and you like it better - or at least you would if your arms weren’t pinned underneath you.

“It matters,” Kal says, “because the specific words he used will determine the way I’ll kill him.”

Blinking, you stare up at him in shock. He can’t actually be serious, surely? But there’s a dangerous set to his jaw and the longer you search the hard lines of his expression, the less certain you are that there’s any chance he’s exaggerating.

“Kal…” you instinctively try to move your hand up to his face and remember it’s currently going numb behind your back. “Kal, let go of my arms.”

The tension in the air dissipates marginally as Kal exhales a long breath and lets go, shifting more fully onto his forearms. You bring your hands up to his face, rolling your eyes at the way he jerks his head irritably.

“Look at me and tell me you’re not going to murder anyone.”

“What did he _say_ ,” Kal demands again, and the edge in his voice makes you gut do that funny twisty thing again.

“Fine.” You drop your hands to his shoulders and look at the ceiling while you think. “It was just - he was just rude. He doesn’t want to see me ever again - or you, by the way, though it sounds like you already - well. Never mind that.” You want to mention that Vau thinks Kal’s serious about you, but unfortunately this is just not the time. So you do your best to pick your next words carefully. “He said I’m a stupid choice for whatever this is, and he made it sound like he thinks you’ll regret having anything to do with me.”

Kal’s eyes narrow and he shakes his head, muttering something in his language you don’t quite catch.

“Admittedly, we made him uncomfortable - Kal, could we please not talk about this anymore?”

Kal looks at you carefully for a moment. It’s probably a bad idea, but you pout prettily at him and hope it’ll prove distracting.

“I’m still going to gut him and feed him to his strill if he says anything to you again.”

“That’s _disgusting_ ,” you protest as Kal pushes himself to his knees, grabbing you around the waist to pull you with him.

##  **[RIP smut scene]**

He glances at the chrono and lies back down, pulling you into him. You grin triumphantly and snuggle into him, resting your head on his shoulder and wrapping an arm over his chest, and when he turns his head to press a soft kiss to your forehead, your heart swells.

The two of you lie like that for a few minutes, Kal petting your hair lazily while you trace patterns over his chest. Your mind goes back to what Vau had said - _not Vau, don’t think about Vau_ \- and you wonder if it’s a bad idea to ask Kal if he’s serious about you or not. _That’s the oxytocin talking._

“Good point,” you say aloud, and Kal draws his head back to look at you.

“What?”

“Sorry. Just thinking.”

“Mmm.” Kal glances at the chrono again. “Thinking is supposed to be a silent process - ”  
  
“Hey - “

“ - and Vau’s going to be here in about ten minutes.”

You untangle yourself and sit up. “ _What_.”

Kal reaches for his flight suit again. “I checked the schedule.”

“There’s a - _Kal_ ,” you say, trying to keep the irritation out of your voice. “You didn’t tell me people could schedule this room. Did _you_ schedule it?”

“Nope,” Kal says and tosses your bra at you.

You gape at him for a moment before hurriedly starting to dress. “Kal Skirata, I could _slap_ you right now and not feel even the least bit sorry.”

“But you won’t, _tracyn’ika_ ,” Kal says, grinning at you as straps his thigh-plates on. “By the way, supper’s at nineteen hundred.”

You resist the urge to chuck your shoe at his head and slip it onto your foot instead. “You’d better hope you can cook decently.”

“Hope?” Kal clicks his tongue. “I _know_ I can. See you tonight,” and, picking up his helmet, he drops a kiss to the top of your head before walking out the door.

____________________

Several hours and a shower later, you make your way to Kal’s quarters with the help of a surprisingly friendly - or at least, not wholly unfriendly - Kaminoan. It’s not until you knock on the door that you realize you don’t know if this is a proper date, or a meet-the-family kind of situation, the family in this case being Kal’s little Nulls.

The door slides open and at first, you don’t see anyone beyond it, just an unassuming room, far larger than you expected - it’s actually big enough for a couch. _This is nicer than my own sitting room_ , you think with a twinge of jealousy. You haven’t got a couch.

“Ma’am?”

The voice comes from somewhere below your knees and you look down hastily. It’s a little boy, all dark curls and huge eyes and cheeks so chubby you have to fight the urge to reach down and pinch them.

“Sorry, are you one of the Null ARCs?” you ask, smiling brightly down at him. _Looks like it’s a meet-the-family thing._

The child doesn’t return the smile, just nods gravely and steps aside, neatly folding his hands behind his back. You assume he means for you to come in and you do so, trying not to stare at the silent little boy. He makes no such effort and stares at you with an intensity that twists your stomach with nerves.

“What’s your name?” you ask him.

“Ordo.”

“Alright, Ordo, can you tell Kal that I’m here?”

Ordo nods again and disappears into the next room. There’s quiet chatter coming from it; you pick out Kal’s voice among the higher-pitched voices of the Nulls. You even hear a few quiet giggles. The sweet sounds remind you pleasantly of the children you’d worked with on Alderaan, and you feel the tension drain out of you as your gaze drifts around the sitting room. Two chairs, one small side table, a long couch. A pile of blankets in the corner, perfectly folded and stacked. Nothing to suggest the presence of six four-year-old boys, though you’re not totally surprised, not after reading that log.

Another piercing giggle drifts out of what you’re assuming is the kitchen, and then Kal appears, carrying another boy while Ordo trails behind him.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. We were just finishing up,” he says, attempting to pat the top of Ordo’s head with his free hand. The boy is so tiny Kal’s fingers barely brush his hair. “This is Ordo, and this one here - “ he nods to the Null clinging to his neck “ - is Prudii.”

“Pleased to meet you, Prudii,” you say, smiling. This one doesn’t smile back, either, and you try not to feel disappointed. “Ordo and I already met, didn’t we, Ordo?”

Ordo nods solemnly and edges closer to Kal’s leg. Prudii just stares at you. Kal shifts Prudii a bit and frowns.

“They’re not used to people,” he says apologetically. “They really only know the aiwha-bait and myself. And Fett, but they haven’t seen him since he left last month.”

Before you can reply, Kal turns his head and shouts something in the Mandalorian language. A child’s voice, identical to Ordo’s calls back and Kal nods to himself, turning to face you again.

“The rest of the lads will be out in a moment. Care to sit?”

“Thank you,” you say, and Ordo detaches himself from Kal’s leg to slip past you to one of the chairs.

He tugs on it, apparently trying his best to pull it out for you, and you can’t quite bite back a small smile, though you make sure to turn your head so Ordo won’t see. Kal moves over to help the child, winking at you, and your smile grows wider.

“Thank you, Ordo, that was very thoughtful of you,” you say as you settle yourself on the chair.

Even with your praise, the Null’s mouth droops a little and he looks anxiously up at Kal.

“Sorry, Kal. It was too heavy.”

His enunciation is perfect, you notice.

“It’s okay, son.” Kal bends down to pat his head properly and Prudii giggles as his center of balance shifts. He stifles the sound immediately and for a brief moment, Kal’s expression tightens with concern. “You did well.”

Ordo’s face clears instantly. Kal swings Prudii onto the couch, earning another quickly-stifled giggle, and Ordo clambers up next to his brother. They sit primly on the edge of the cushions, the picture of well-behaved children save for the way they start swinging their legs.

“I’ll get the food.” Kal says and looks at the two boys. “Behave yourselves.”

He vanishes into the kitchen area and you’re left with Ordo and Prudii, still swinging their legs and keeping their wide eyes fixed on you. There’s tension written up and down every centimeter of their ramrod-straight backs. You try to think of how to begin. Obviously, asking about hobbies will do no good - it’s unlikely they have any - but you’re still not familiar with their training and you’re not sure what questions to ask. You settle for the easy option.

“So, how was your day?”

Ordo blinks. “Productive.”

“Oh.” _They seem to think like adults, but surely that’s not possible for four-year-olds._ “Well, that’s wonderful. What about your day, Prudii?”

Prudii glances at Ordo. “Productive.”

“We had the same day,” Ordo adds, his little forehead wrinkling.

“Of course. Silly me,” you say brightly. “Did you learn anything interesting?”

The two boys break their gaze to look at each other. Some kind of unspoken communication seems to pass between the two of them and you’re suddenly very glad you haven’t been left alone with all six Nulls.

“We’re learning about architecture,” Ordo volunteers.

“That sounds interesting! What kind of architecture?”

“How to blow it up,” Ordo says and Prudii nods in agreement.

“Oh, I see! That’s _very_ interesting.”

You try to think of where to go from there; luckily Kal comes back just then with the other four Nulls in tow. He’s carrying a tray weighed down with steaming serving dishes and the kids each have a stack of dishes or utensils.

“Here’s the rest,” he says cheerfully, setting the tray precariously on the too-small side table and dragging the whole thing into the center of the cluster of furniture. “This is A’den, Kom’rk, Mereel, and Jaing,” he adds, pointing to each one in turn.

You try not to look alarmed. Foolishly, you’d imagined there’d be _some_ way to tell them apart, but the reality is that they are actually and truly identical. Same haircut, same outfit, same faces. Same neutral, focused expressions.

“Nice to meet you,” you say to the group and they chorus it back in unison.

Kal winces almost imperceptibly and you nearly laugh.

“So, what’s for dinner? It smells amazing,” you say, breathing in the complex aroma of something warmly savory and spicy.

“ _Tiingilar_. It’s not even close to full spice though, or it’d be better,” Kal takes the other chair while the little Nulls start handing around dishes. “I’m still working on getting the lads up to Mandalorian spice tolerance. They’re too used to food-board.”

“Oh, I see - well, it sounds lovely anyways.” You eye the bright red stew warily as you take a bowl and spoon from one of the Nulls - Jaing? A’den? You’re not really sure. “Thank you.”

You normally consider yourself to have a high spice tolerance, but if Kal thinks this is weak, you might just be in trouble. It smells _hot_.

“Why don’t you pass the bread, Kom’rk,” Kal says, and one of the boys hands you a piece of flatbread.

 _Kom’rk,_ you repeat to yourself, trying to find something to distinguish him from the rest.

It gets easier as the meal progresses. You do your best to draw the little Nulls out, but it’s Kal that they respond to. He tells stories about his people and their history; he paints pictures of noble warriors and great leaders and describes their victories and defeats with the same level of energy. The boys sit quietly on the couch and listen with wide eyes as they shovel food into their mouths with a rapidity that’s only slightly less impressive than the neatness they do it with. It’s doesn’t actually seem possible that a four-year-old can eat more than you do, but you notice they put away two plates of stew before you’ve gotten through your own, and you think you may have to revise your notion of what’s possible. _Higher metabolisms, probably. After all, they grow twice as fast as regular children._

As they eat and ask the occasional question, you start to notice the little differences that distinguish them from each other. Prudii always looks to one of his brothers - usually Ordo or Kom’rk - before saying anything, A’den tilts his head just slightly to the side when he’s listening. Jaing, interestingly enough, constantly runs his tongue over his teeth or rubs his fingers together like the feeling bothers him.

 _It probably does,_ you think. _Between the accelerated growth and the abnormally high intelligence, it wouldn’t be a surprise if half of these children ended up with some kind of unforeseen neurodivergence. Stupid Kaminoans don’t know what they’re doing._

There are a couple of times where you have to ask for clarification on a point that Kal’s made almost entirely in his own language, and the Nulls are eager to help you out. They’re also sympathetic when you nearly choke on one of the small chilis Kal has left in the stew - how you’re ever going to handle it at it’s usual intensity, you really don’t know - and under pretense of passing you water, Mereel takes the opportunity to put his warm little face right next to your ear and whisper:

“I think _tingilaar_ is awfully spicy, too.”

“I’m glad I’m not the only one,” you whisper back, ignoring Kal’s inquiring look.

After that, the two of you spend the rest of dinner send each other conspiratorial glances over the your bowls of stew. Whenever Kal’s back is turned you take the opportunity to stick your tongue out and fan it, and you’ve quickly got not only Mereel but also Prudii and A’den giggling quietly every time you do so. When Jaing starts joining in, Kal finally pauses in the middle of explaining something to Kom’rk and turns to you in exasperation.

“Someone want to tell me what’s going on here?”

“Sorry, Kal,” you say contritely. “This is so good, but it’s just _so_ hot. I think my tongue’s on fire.”

“No it’s not!” Mereel blurts out scornfully, and at the same time Prudii asks, “Is it really?”

“That’s not possible,” Ordo says, his forehead wrinkling. “ _Is_ it possible, Kal?”

“It’s _not_ ,” Mereel insists. “Stick it out again.”

You obligingly stick out your tongue and are immediately swarmed by the Nulls, all peering at it with great interest.

“It’s not burnt,” Ordo says with relief. “Just red.”

“Really red,” Kom’rk adds.

“I bet yours are, too,” you say.

“Ith mine ed?” A’den asks, sticking his own tongue out.

As each little Null sticks his tongue out in turn for his brothers to inspect, you glance over at Kal. He’s got an odd expression on his face and you can’t quite place it, but he doesn’t seem upset, so that, at least, is a good sign.

“Can’t handle heat, huh?” he asks over the boys’ heads.

You roll your eyes at him. “Of course I can. Doesn’t mean - ” You break off, suddenly inspired. “I wonder if _your_ tongue is red, too,” you say more loudly.

The Nulls stop talking instantly and turn their wide eyes on Kal. He groans.

“Fine. Take a look, just - not all at once.”  
  
You’re not sure why he bothered. The boys crowd around him, pushing each other to climb onto his lap. After a few moments of serious discussion, little Ordo nods, satisfied.

“It’s not red,” he announces.

“That’s ‘cause I’m used to spicy food,” Kal says. “Apparently our guest is not.”  
  
“Ours are red, too,” Jaing points out.

  
“We’re _getting_ used to spicy food,” Mereel says. “Soon our tongues won’t go red anymore. Right, Kal?”

Kal grins. “Right, son.”

“You’ll get used to it, too,” Prudii says consolingly, coming over to pat your hand.

Maybe he feels sorry for you, but after the dishes have been cleared away, Prudii tugs you over to sit on the couch and immediately climbs onto your lap. You look at Kal, who just shrugs, though he keeps half on eye on Prudii for a long time after that. Kal and you continue to talk, you sharing stories of Alderaan and describing the wildflowers and mountains as best you can. Ordo ends up in Kal’s lap, Jaing and A’den slip to the floor so they can curl against his legs, and Kom’rk and Mereel scooch over to lean against you from both sides. It’s cozy and familiar, and you find yourself having to blink back tears a few times as Prudii sleepily nuzzles against you and his brothers press themselves closer. You’ve missed this feeling.

“Time for bed,” Kal finally says, lifting Ordo and setting him on the floor.

Prudii sighs and, to your immense surprise and gratification, quickly puts his arms around your neck and pecks your cheek before he slides off your lap. Kom’rk kneels up to do the same; Mereel either doesn’t notice or doesn’t want to, which is fine by you. You’re more than satisfied with the unexpected affection from the other two, and judging by the warmth in Kal’s eyes, he’s pleased by the situation, too.

You stand up. “I’ll be going, then. Thank you all for such a nice evening.”

Amid a chorus of goodbyes, Kal grabs your hand and pulls you towards the door.

“I’ll only be a minute,” he calls over his shoulder and then to you he says, “They’re still sleeping in here; they’re scared of the lightning and I don’t want them by themselves in some huge, empty room.”

“That’s understandable,” you smile as he opens the door and guides you into the hallway. “You’re doing a good job with them, Kal. They seem content, and they obviously dote on you.”

Kal turns his head, but not quickly enough to hide his smile. “Just trying to do the right thing.”

“You are,” you assure him.

“Thanks.” He clears his throat. “And thanks for - for whatever you did with them. I told them we were having a guest over for supper and I think they understood. Wasn’t sure how they were going to react, though.”

“They were absolutely wonderful, Kal. I don’t think I’ve ever met such polite, thoughtful children that age.”

He smiles again, proudly this time. “They’re good kids.”

“They are. Will I see you tomorrow?”  
  
“Probably,” Kal says. “Maybe I’ll even schedule the training room this time.”

“ _Kal,_ ” you laugh. “Way to ruin the mood.”  
  
“Am I?” Kal leans forward and kisses your forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You make your way back to your quarters with a smile on your face. You’re so caught up in your own giddiness that you nearly trip over the small package in front of your door.

“Didn’t know they had a postal system here,” you mutter to yourself as you pick it up.

The contents must be minuscule; they’re only wrapped by a single sheet of flimsi. You shake it open and catch the scrap of fabric that falls out.

 _Oh, no. Please no._ You slump against the door, not sure whether you want to cry or laugh. Apparently, in your rush to dress earlier, you’d left your panties in the training room. Clutching the dratted item, you glance at the flimsi again. There’s a note written on the inside.

_Tell Skirata to clean up his mess next time._


End file.
